


Pyrexia

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst, Both figuratively and literally, Eventual Happy Ending, Gender Issues, Genderqueer, Intersex, Knotting, M/M, Omegaverse, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stands with one foot in each world. Not Alpha, not Omega, and yet both all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pyrexia - from Greek purexis, from puressein to be feverish, from pur fire
> 
> Thanks to UrbanHymnal for looking this over <3
> 
>   _So, I really have no idea how or why this happened. I have never had any particular inclination to write Omegaverse before, but this morning I woke up and really needed to know what would happen if someone ended up presenting as both Alpha and Omega. This basically wrote itself. Apparently when my brain overdoses on Regency-era schmoop, strange things happen and it revolts._
> 
>   _Fair warning, the beginning of this is far removed from my usual happy fluffy tone. There's a lot of (subtextual, non-graphic, but still evident) hatred and abuse towards non-standard gender presentation, and slightly suicidal ideations. There is a happy ending, but if that sort of thing is going to be triggery or uncomfortable for you, please give this a pass. If you just want to read my attempt at writing Omegaverse smut without all the angst and introspection beforehand, skip straight to chapter two._

John is born in limbo. At first, he is a tiny, squalling, wrinkled thing, and none of it is apparent. As a toddler, he vacillates wildly between stomping around the house and terrorising his sister and quietly, gently caring for his dolls. _Definitely an Alpha_ , some say, mostly the big strong uncles. _No, no, he's an Omega all over_ the aunties tut fondly. _He'll make someone very happy one day._

His father's brow furrows, but his mother smiles and soothes. He is their John, and he will present when he is ready. And no matter how he presents, they will love him.

They repeat this mantra until he hits puberty, and it is as though his body still refuses to make up its mind. When the omegas in his class start approaching their heats, he feels the pull of _bitemountpossess_ deep in his belly, has to get up and leave the classroom with his cock painful and throbbing in his trousers. 

He comes home, confused and uncomfortable, and his father takes him aside. _Another Alpha in the family_ , he says, a combination of pride and relief.

And then his mother finds him, barely two weeks later, aching and sopping and needy, drenched in a cold sweat. She pats his forehead and draws his blinds, and promises to take him shopping for _a little something to help you through this_. He is both mortified and grateful when he figures out she means a physical aid of some sort.

The whispers carry through the bedroom door. _But I thought he was an Alpha_ and _But he's so strong_ and _Well it just isn't **right**_. He burrows deeper into the covers as another spasm of desperate need wracks his body.

He sees first one doctor, and then another, and then another. Finally, one gives him the words that are meant to be soothing but are little cold comfort. _It's rare, but you're not alone. We can fix you. You just have to make a choice._ The tests show that despite his heats, his Omega parts aren't fully-formed, and he'd never bear children. He's not sure if that's a relief or not, but the doctor seems to imply that removing the parts of him that cause the heats, the parts that generate the pheromones, would be the most logical course of action. He could live as an Alpha, and wouldn't that be the most desirable option?

For a while, he nearly caves. It would be so easy, all he'd have to do is remove half of himself. But there's a voice in the back of his head, fighting to speak up. The voice that insists he's not broken. Eventually, he stands his ground, refuses to be "corrected." He finds himself wondering what's so bad about being an Omega anyway?

He manages to keep his cock hidden, keep his head down, and when people meet him and assume he's an Omega, he doesn't go out of his way to disabuse them of the notion. It's not a lie, not really. It helps that he seems to have stopped growing, remaining an unassuming five foot seven, when all the Alpha boys around him are shooting up like weeds.

In Sixth Form, he meets Thomas. Thomas is big and strong and insists John needs protecting. John rolls with it, biting back his more domineering side. Everything seems great until John's next heat rolls around. They fall into bed, because it seems like the natural thing to do. 

He lays John bare and rolls him onto his back. John's cock, thick and huge, so very _Alpha_ is proud and hot and jutting from his body. From there, it's a downhill spiral of _What the fuck is that?!_ and _You tried to trick me_ and _You freak_. It doesn't come to blows, not quite, but John's never entirely sure if it's only because he scrambles back into his jeans and runs into the night.

School the following Monday is slow torture, death by knowing glances and sideways comments. John thanks the gods he's not sure he believes in that there are only a few months left before graduation.

He starts fresh in university, working towards a medical degree that never fits him quite right. He hooks up with other students a few times. Tries to present solely as an Alpha and fucks a few Omegas so blinded by their heats that they don't notice his abnormalities. He learns to stay away from Alphas after several nights of violently hurled invective and bruises that take a little too long to heal. Finds a few Betas who think it's _cool, man_ and _kind of kinky_ but still _not quite normal, you know?_. Every encounter leaves him itching under his skin, a flame that can't quite be snuffed.

Eventually he gives up, focusing on his studies. It's a pamphlet in the hallway, of all things, that gives John a purpose. The RAMC. He can put his medical degree to use and burn off some of his excess physical energy. The corps seems almost tailored to someone who is both Alpha and Omega, both predator and nurturer.

In the desert, it becomes easier to ignore his urges. He has access to better synthetic hormones now, he's able to suppress his heats, and with all the other Omegas doing the same, his Alpha side never rears its ugly head. There's a blanket policy of discouraging fraternisation, but nobody's really inclined that way anyway, not with the blood and the fire and the sand at the forefront of everything. He's nearly a Beta now, but so is everybody else. It's just easier this way.

And then John gets shot. He's taking care of a fellow soldier when it happens; he sees the flash, the world going white before his eyes, before he even feels it. And then the fire, the burn, worse than anything he's ever felt in his groin, all-consuming and apocalyptic.

It would be so easy, he thinks, to just give up without a fight. To slump into the ground, the blood pooling around him instead of blazing inside of him. No more worries about being a freak, about not fitting in. It would be so easy.

But it wouldn't be John Hamish Watson. He fights, and he fights, and he pulls through, but he's no longer useful, no longer needed, even here. They send him home. They send him back to London. He's not sure where _home_ is anymore. He finds a bedsit. It's sad and dark and empty, and John thinks there's probably something metaphorical and telling about that, but he doesn't particularly give a shit.

He stops caring. Stops taking the hormone suppressants, locks himself in his room and fends off a backlog of crippling heats in the dank little bed. Sometimes he regrets having fought so hard. The gun in his drawer, secreted out of the Army when people were too busy ignoring the unassuming little pseudo-Beta doctor, becomes his best friend and closest ally. It's not that he needs it, not quite yet. But the knowledge that it's with him through thick and thin is oddly comforting.

Suddenly one morning, things are different. He's not sure what changes, exactly. He wakes up itching to go out, unusually refreshed after his extended heat breaks. He runs into Mike, one of the few Betas from Uni who never seemed to give a shit what John was one way or the other.

Mike introduces him to Sherlock, and the floor crashes out from under him. John's never been in a lift with faulty cables, but he imagines it's a bit like that.

Sherlock wears his Alphaness like he wears his fucking coat. Like he couldn't care less about it, and yet like it's an absolutely intrinsic part of who he is. And god, but John _wants_. He hasn't ached like this in years. It's not hormones, not the crazy ones. His heat is over. He just has a need to consume, and be consumed by, everything that Sherlock is.

Moving in almost seems like too risky a proposition. Sherlock is clearly the most observant man John has ever met, and in such close proximity there's no way he'll be able to hide what he really is for long. The suppressants will only do so much. 

He caves though. He's weak. He can't bear the idea of letting Sherlock walk out of his life so early in the game. His meagre possessions seem all the more pathetic in the two cardboard boxes and one dirty duffel it takes him to move in.

At first, it works. They're caught up in a whirl of cases and confusion and that shiny, sparkling, getting-to-know-you insanity. It helps that Sherlock's particular brand of insanity results in John killing a man for him. John knows it won't last, but he revels in it, soaking up any scraps he can get before it all inevitably goes to shite.

They orbit around each other, some cosmic constellation John feels like joking about. Basking, refracting, all that poetic light-related nonsense. They never quite touch, two bodies in motion, and for a while John thinks it might just be enough.

Until Sherlock starts crowding him. Bumping him. Brushing his fingers across John's hand as they pass innumerable cups of coffee and tea and plates of takeaway back and forth. He's testing the waters, not simply taking what should be his by rights. What's been his since the first day.

They're sitting on the sofa one day, a lull between cases and some crap talk show being ignored on the telly. It's Sherlock who breaks the silence.

"You could stop the suppressants, you know. I would take good care of you. I find you... pleasing. Even without the influence of the hormones."

The blood in John's veins was hot and thrumming with Sherlock's proximity mere seconds ago. Now it's congealing; ice and frost and glass. Every muscle in his body is taut, trembling, ready to jump up and run if he needs to.

"It's..." He bites his lip. The words are a jumble in his head, fighting for dominance. How fitting. "It's complicated." He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to still the panic in his gut.

Sherlock nods. "I know. You're not an Omega. Well, not _just_ an Omega. You're a puzzle." Sherlock makes it sound as if this is the most glorious thing John could be. As if complicated and confusing is somehow desirable. And really, he supposes, with Sherlock, it probably is.

Whatever words were on John's lips vanish, his mouth hanging open in confusion. "You don't sound disgusted."

At this, Sherlock looks genuinely perplexed. It doesn't suit him, and it makes John laugh.

"Why would I be?" Sherlock asks, indignantly. "Puzzles are _interesting_." He says it with such conviction, as though he's bestowing the best possible compliment he could come up with.

John smiles weakly, some of the tension seeping out of his shoulders. He's not entirely ready to let his guard down yet, but the fight-or-flight response is dissipating. Sherlock continues talking, and John sinks gratefully into the sofa as the adrenaline drops.

"You smell off. No, no, not bad!" he clarifies quickly, as an irritated expression crosses John's face. "Not the typical off of an Omega on hormone suppressants, or a Beta wearing some form of synthetic pheromone. I can't quite place it. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?"

John laughs again, shrill and nervous. "You have no idea what frustrating is, Sherlock. Trust me."

In a nervous gesture that John finds strangely endearing, Sherlock reaches out haltingly and puts a hand on John's knee. Even after all the carefully calculated and completely infuriating contact Sherlock's been instigating lately, the touch sends sparks up John's spine, and he finds himself almost completely relaxed. Maybe, he thinks, this might just work.

"Will you trust me then?" Sherlock's eyes are hopeful, eager for some fascinating new tidbit of information. "Will you tell me?"

John sighs. "When you offered... about my heats..."

"So you do have them!" Sherlock shouts, triumphant, as though he's thrilled to have at least one hypothesis confirmed.

"Yes. Well, if I stop taking the hormones, I would. Were you offering..." John cuts himself off again, choosing his words carefully. "As an Alpha, as a flatmate, as a colleague?"

"As a friend?" Sherlock tilts his head slightly, as though he's not entirely sure that was the right answer. "Maybe as more?"

Every pulse point, every nerve, every inch of John's skin is screaming _trust him trust him trust him_ , but John has been burnt so many times. What if Sherlock reacts the same way every other Alpha has ever reacted? John knows he couldn't handle the rejection of the one bright flare of light left in his life.

He looks up, studying Sherlock's face. For once, it is utterly unguarded. Sherlock usually wears his face like a mask, schooling it into exactly the socially acceptable expression necessary to further his means, but this is different. He is genuinely curious, genuinely open, and genuinely hopeful.

And for once, so is John. He looks down, studying the mottled denim of his own jeans, before looking back up at Sherlock.

"I'm going to stop the suppressants, okay? And next heat..." He trails off again. He's been doing a lot of that today. "We'll see how things go, alright?"

The light in Sherlock's eyes knocks the breath right out of John's chest. Impulsively, John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's implausible lips, that absurdly appealing cupid's bow he's been aching to taste for months now. He feels Sherlock's lips part, half startled gasp and half invitation, but pulls back. He doesn't want this to progress yet.

"I still need some time though. If I stop today, that gives us about a month."

Sherlock nods, the slightly overwhelmed expression still playing across his ridiculous features. There's a flutter of something fragile and beautiful in John's chest, something that needs to be nurtured.

"Just promise me one thing, Sherlock?"

"Of course, John. Anything."

John laughs, because he knows how well asking Sherlock to stick to a promise usually works, but he has to ask anyway.

"Don't turn me into an experiment?"

There's a spasm across Sherlock's face that looks vaguely like he's trying not to sneeze, and John laughs again. He reaches out and strokes Sherlock's cheek soothingly.

"At least, not right away."


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks crawl by at a pace that sets John's teeth on edge. He keeps feeling as though he's forgotten something, before he realises he has made the intentional choice to stop taking his pills. Every morning he wakes up, stretches, and closes his eyes, trying to sense any impending changes in his body. Looking for that slow, simmering tingle that signifies the oncoming heat.

Sherlock, somehow, has become even more impossible to live with. It's as though he's fighting with himself, alternately giving John more space than he needs and crowding him with curiosity. He'll vacillate wildly; from looming right over John while he has his morning tea, the warmth of his body mere inches from John's cheek, to a policy of apparent avoidance, getting up off the sofa when John sits down, jamming twitching fingers deep into his pockets.

John takes it all in stride, knowing Sherlock's promise to be patient and not experiment on him is fighting for dominance with his natural curiosity and his disdain for reasonable things like personal space and privacy.

John wants to kiss Sherlock again, but he doesn't want to risk getting even more attached. As if that's possible at this point. Instead, they dance around each other, their agreement -- no, their promises -- hanging in the air like a perfume. Sweet, but nearly verging on cloying.

Finally, one morning, nearly five weeks after their conversation, John feels it. The pull in his abdomen, the tingling heat under his skin like an impending fever. Whatever happens today will irrevocably change the dynamic between himself and Sherlock, for better or for worse. John rubs his hands through his hair and rolls out of bed.

He shuffles blearily down the stairs, absurdly grateful that Sherlock seems to be out on some mysterious errand. He stumbles into the shower, taking longer than usual and letting the heat seep into his muscles, relaxing him slightly. The trembling, creeping, itching sensation of his impending heat is getting stronger, the slow ache starting to build between his legs. John picks up one of Sherlock's stupidly expensive body washes and decides to indulge. Hopefully, if this all goes well, this is going to be his last shower for the next little while, so may as well make it memorable. If he's going to spend several days tangled up in bed with Sherlock, he wants to smell nice -- at least at the beginning.

The hot water's nearly run out when he hears Sherlock's familiar, overly enthusiastic footfalls bounding up the stairs. John steps out of the shower and shakes himself off, rubbing himself down with a towel. His skin's already overly sensitive, and he luxuriates in the contact of the soft brushed cotton a little longer than necessary. His cock's already hardening at the flush of hormones, at the hopeful little spark that maybe, maybe this won't all go horribly awry. 

He's debating whether to get fully dressed or simply put on his robe when Sherlock solves the dilemma for him by barging into the bathroom uninvited. John yelps and barely manages to cover his lower half with a towel, but he's sure Sherlock can see the outline of his heavy, most decidedly Alpha cock.

"You..." Sherlocks's eyes are wide and his voice is breathy. "I could smell you from downstairs. _John_."

John runs his tongue over his lower lip, and Sherlock's eyes follow the movement.

"Sherlock. Um. Yeah." _Real smooth, John._ "When I woke up this morning." He gestures uselessly to his groin. "Are you sure about this? It's not just the pheromones?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pacing back and forth in the tiny doorway between his bedroom and the bathroom. "I have been waiting for this day for weeks, John. I want this."

Suddenly, the floor is the most fascinating thing John's ever seen. He studies the pattern of the tiles, one misplaced black hexagon jumping out at him. He's never going to be able to ignore that now.

"What do you want, Sherlock? Do you want an Omega to fuck, or do you want to know what I've been hiding from you?"

John makes the mistake of looking up after asking, and there's a look of unexpected hurt and confusion across Sherlock's face.

"No." Sherlock says, brow furrowed. "Well, yes. But, no, John. I want _you_. If I just wanted to find someone to fuck, as you so eloquently put it, do you really think I'd have trouble?"

Despite his heightened emotional state, John chuckles. Because Sherlock's got a point. He's gorgeous, he's intelligent, and he's so very, very Alpha. He could have pretty much anyone he wanted, were he so inclined. And yet, he wants _John_. Broken, bizarre John, with one foot in each world.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, seems so distracted that he hasn't even noticed John's substantial erection yet. John wonders if it's the pheromones or simply the prospect of something new and exciting. Either way, he's grateful. He'd rather this doesn't happen in the bathroom.

"Should we, uh, go into your room then?"

Nodding, Sherlock scrambles backwards. John squares his shoulders and follows him, stepping over both physical and the metaphorical thresholds.

Sherlock's room is exactly the same as it's always been; dimly lit, warm, and surprisingly tidy. And yet, it feels entirely different to John today. Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed, feet planted firmly on the floor and long fingers drumming against his thighs in nervous agitation.

John, for lack of anything better to do, stands next to the bed, facing Sherlock. His erection had started to flag slightly, but now, with Sherlock staring at him so eagerly, he can feel every beat of his heart down there. At this rate, he may as well just show Sherlock. 

"Well, as you can tell, I go into heat, like an Omega. But there's also this." He bites the bullet and grabs the towel in his hands. One sharp tug, and it falls to the floor, exposing his cock to Sherlock. John does his best to maintain slow, even breathing, fighting against his body's urges to panic and flee.

Sherlock makes a noise that's part startled exclamation, part pleased gasp, and part moan. Not a single fragment of it sounds repulsed, though. It might be the most lovely sound John has ever heard. His heart pounds, and his cock twitches away from his body in response. His erection isn't flagging, despite his swirling emotions. Maybe all those hormones are useful for something after all.

Sherlock raises one tentative hand, as though he wants to touch John's cock. John glances downwards, towards Sherlock's lap, and the outline of his own generous Alpha endowments are visible through his trousers. He doesn't seem to be put off by John yet, but that might just be the pheromones in the air. John stares at Sherlock's cock a moment longer, feeling a rush of familiar slick warmth between his arse cheeks.

He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and stares at the ceiling. "You've probably got questions." The words are difficult to get out. What he wants to say is _Christ, Sherlock, fuck me_. But he needs to clear the air first.

When John looks back down, Sherlock is already scrambling to undress himself. He's managed to get his shirt mostly off, it's still hanging off one wrist, and he's fumbling with his fly. The sight disarms John, and he lets his guard down. He wants to go sit on the bed, next to Sherlock, but he knows if he gets too close they'll end up in a sweaty tangled mess before any of this is sorted. He digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, the sharp pain grounding him briefly.

"Go on then, Sherlock. What's on your mind?"

"You're unique, John. But I knew that before. And you're beautiful."

That's not what John was expecting to hear, and he loses his train of thought for a moment. Sherlock's managed to strip himself down now, and damn but his cock is glorious. It's bigger than John's, with a pronounced curve that causes it to jut away from his body. John wants it in his mouth, in his arse, in his hands, anywhere he can get it. Without thinking, he steps closer to the bed before halting himself.

"Not entirely unique. The statistics they gave me were an estimated one in one hundred thousand Alphas also display Omega physiology or traits. I'm not a fully developed Omega, I can't bear children."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "Good. Children are annoying. One less thing to worry about."

John snorts, because really, of all the reactions Sherlock could be having right now, this one seems the most _Sherlock_. He's taken another step towards Sherlock, and from there it's the most natural thing ever to sit down on the bed next to him.

"How do you..." Sherlock pauses thoughtfully. "I mean, do you _want_ me to fuck you?"

"Christ, Sherlock. Can't you tell?" Impulsively, John grabs Sherlock's hand and thrusts it down between his legs, where he's already dripping and desperate. Sherlock gasps slightly and pushes John's shoulders down onto the mattress in one fluid motion.

Before John can process what's happening, Sherlock's mouth is on his, all clever tongue and sharp teeth. It's glorious, and John moans, his body rising up to meet Sherlock's. The sensation of two Alpha cocks rubbing against each other should feel alien, but somehow it just feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and licks at John's throat, breathing deeply and inhaling the sweat and salt and pheromones. John whimpers and spreads his legs, letting them fall open on either side of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock ruts against him, gripping John's hips. His fingers are digging in, almost to the point of pain, but John moans eagerly.

His blood is boiling, thrumming just under his skin, and Sherlock's touch is both setting him ablaze and cooling him down. John reaches up and grabs Sherlock's face, pulling him in for another messy, hungry kiss.

"Fuck, Sherlock," he murmurs against Sherlock's mouth. "Christ, I need you inside me. I _want_ you inside me." And he does, fuck but he does. He has for months, and part of him still can't quite believe this is happening.

Sherlock pulls away and drags his cheek across John's, smooth skin catching on John's rough stubble as Sherlock moves towards John's ear. He bites the lobe, gently but enough to cause a sting, and John writhes desperately under him.

"On your stomach, John. I can't wait."

Good, because neither can John. He can feel his own slickness, coating his inner walls, dripping down his thighs, and for once in his life he doesn't feel ashamed or embarrassed. Especially not when he rolls away from Sherlock, settles on his knees, and almost immediately feels those long, clever fingers sliding up and down the cleft of his arse, spreading the moisture around.

He whimpers, thrusting his hips backwards, presenting himself to Sherlock like an animal. He can feel Sherlock spreading his cheeks, feel Sherlock slide one thumb easily into his slick, loose opening. No, shit, two thumbs. He hooks one into each side of the ring of muscle of John's anus and pulls gently, opening him up with more care than the few people he let explore back there ever have.

A shudder runs through John's body as Sherlock continues exploring, gently coaxing him open, thumbs rubbing his inside walls in tiny, soothing circles. John gasps as Sherlock runs his tongue up the inside of his thigh, lapping up the sticky fluid he finds there. His tongue reaches John's arsehole and flutters lightly against it, the tip probing between his thumbs as he continues to spread John open. John wails, because there's really no other word to describe the noise that escapes his lips.

Sherlock moves away and John feels irrationally heartbroken. He knows he's not gone far, but the sudden lack of that tongue inside of him is the worst thing he could imagine right now. Thankfully, after a quick shift, Sherlock's thumbs are back inside of John, his chest cool and smooth against John's feverish back as he gets ready to mount.

John arches his head back and Sherlock runs his tongue up between John's shoulder blades, up over his scar, and towards the nape of his neck. John hisses, tilting his head forwards and exposing the vulnerable skin there, encouraging Sherlock to mark him as his property.

John's loose and ready and aching, and he thinks if Sherlock doesn't fuck him soon he might just explode. 

Finally, either sensing John's need or simply desperate himself, Sherlock slides the head of his cock into John's slick opening, which welcomes him eagerly. It's a tight stretch, John hasn't had much up there besides toys in what feels like eons, but it's glorious. Sherlock grips John's hips firmly, holding him tight as he slides his thick shaft deep into John's arse.

"Fuck, god, yeah, fuck, Sherlock..." John's babbling now, spewing repetitive nonsense, and Sherlock, surprisingly, is nearly silent. With one final snap of his hips, he buries himself completely in John, who lets out another low groan. Sherlock is dragging his lips slowly across John's nape, shoulders, and upper back. Not quite kissing, not quite licking, but every brush of skin drives John insane.

His own cock, thick and dripping, aches with need. He grinds it against the sheets, but it's like trying to scratch an itch he can't quite reach. Sherlock's managing to control his pace, slow steady strokes that soothe John's insides, driving him steadily closer and closer to a desperately needed climax. Still holding John's hips, Sherlock rocks himself in and out, pulling the massive length of his cock nearly all the way out, just the thick head breaching John's opening, before slamming back in. John can feel Sherlock's balls slapping against his own, and he trembles slightly at each thrust.

John hasn't been fucked like this in years. No, he thinks, correcting himself. He hasn't _ever_ been fucked like this. Entirely free of judgement. Instead, with what feels like respect and trust and maybe even love. He whimpers again and bites the sheets to try and stifle the strange noises he's making.

Sherlock's cock is thickening, the wide knot at the base filling out. It won't be long before they're locked together, Sherlock's impending climax filling John to the brim. It should be enough to drive him over the edge, but his own cock is throbbing, his own knot swelling with nothing to surround it but the warm, damp air of the room. He grinds against the linens again, but it's not enough.

Groaning, Sherlock digs his teeth into the soft skin at John's nape. Not hard enough to draw blood, but it will definitely leave a mark. Tears spring to John's eyes, and he manages to convince himself it's simply the overwhelming wave of hormones and the desperate ache of an orgasm he can't quite reach.

Suddenly, there's a wave of tight pressure, a wave of relief, as Sherlock wraps both hands firmly around John's aching knot. It's not a tight, warm passage, but it's hot and it's snug and the fact that Sherlock even thought of it is enough to send John over the edge. He thrusts his cock through the tight ring and arches up off the bed, shouting as his orgasm ripples through him.

What feels like an enormous amount of come splatters the sheets under him as his muscles quiver and tighten, and he locks down around Sherlock, deep inside of him. Sherlock comes with a muffled groan, thick and hot and pulsing against John's inner walls. Sherlock rocks into him a few last times, coaxing both of their orgasms on for as long as he can before they fall to the mattress together in a sticky mess.

It takes John an eternity to catch his breath, and another eternity to realise that Sherlock is still there, lying entangled with him, and looking perfectly content.

"So..." He manages to wriggle out from underneath Sherlock slightly and turns his head to face him. "Is this okay? Was that okay?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gestures to the hideous, sticky mess on the sheets. "I'm fairly certain that was more than okay."

"Git." John scowls, but his heart's not in it. "I meant, I mean... Ugh." He stares at his cock, now gone soft and starting to stick to his inner thigh.

"I know what you mean, John, and I apologise for making light of it." Sherlock looks up at him, suddenly earnest and serious. "And it really is okay. Everything about you is exceptional, why should this be any different?"

John flushes, his cheeks going red in a way that has nothing to do with sex or hormones.

"Well, good, glad that's settled. Because I'm going to be ready for another round in about half an hour."

Sherlock perks up and grins. "Excellent. I'm curious to know what it feels like to be knotted."

"Pardon me?" John isn't quite sure he heard that right.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is it too early to be experimenting then? I thought you could penetrate me next round, perhaps with a toy inside of you."

John falls back onto the bed, his thoughts chasing each other around his brain. It takes him a few seconds to realise that no, it's definitely not too early to start experimenting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only warnings for this chapter are for goofy idiots in love, emotions briefly getting in the way of things, and lots and lots of physically implausible omegaverse smut. Enjoy!

John's in that comfortable, hazy space halfway between waking and sleeping. His right leg is stuck to the sheets and he feels as though he should probably be somewhat revolted by that, but he's too content. It's been three days since his heat started, and Sherlock has been so tender and attentive and loving that John is starting to get a bit concerned, and more than a bit wistful for his impossible, snappy, impatient Sherlock to come back.

He giggles and rolls over, unsticking himself from the sheets, and throws one arm over his eyes. Sherlock is sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, studying John with one eye and flicking through his mobile with the other. When John catches his eye, he tosses the mobile aside and jumps up. He's bare-chested and wearing a pair of threadbare pyjama bottoms and is already half-hard, and the sight sends an aching pang of need through John's already-frazzled body.

"Oh good, you're awake. I thought you might want to take a shower before we..." he trails off, flapping one hand vaguely through the air, and John chuckles.

"Are you saying I smell?" He pretends to look hurt, but considering the tacky film coating his chest, groin, and thighs, he's actually quite grateful for Sherlock's suggestion.

A lascivious grin spreads across Sherlock's face. "You do smell, John. You smell thoroughly edible right now. But I noticed that the sheets were clinging to you while you slept. It was very distracting, but I let you rest."

John rolls his eyes. "How thoughtful of you, Sherlock." He sits up and stretches, finding aches in muscles he was only vaguely aware he even had. He'd apparently forgotten how intense the repeated matings of a heat could be with someone who cared.

_No_ , he mentally corrects himself. He hasn't _forgotten_ , because this is something he's never truly experienced before. He swallows thickly, eyes roaming over the exposed planes of Sherlock's chest and the heaviness in Sherlock's pyjamas, and feels his own cock stirring. Without thinking, he reaches down and rubs himself with the back of his hand.

He gets up, feeling Sherlock's gaze taking in his body. He's never felt quite so unselfconscious in his nudity and arousal before, and makes a bit of a show about strutting into the bathroom, delighting in Sherlock's deep chuckles.

"Don't make me come in there, John."

He smirks, turning the water on and letting it heat up before sticking his head back out the door. Sherlock's still sitting placidly in his chair, but the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms is already straining at the groin, doing virtually nothing to conceal the growing erection there. John's own prick gives a sympathetic twitch at the sight.

"Promises, promises, Sherlock." He winks and ducks back into the loo before Sherlock can reply, but leaves the glass door wide open in obvious invitation.

He steps into the steamy warmth of the shower, letting the hot water pound into his sore muscles. He turns to face the spray, letting it hit his face and hopefully slough off the stickiness of the past three days. As the water trickles down to his cock, and down between the cheeks of his arse, he shivers. The heat may be waning, the desperate need to rut slowing down, but his sensations are still heightened, his skin still tingling and sensitised. He fights the impulse to take his throbbing cock in hand, to shove two fingers into his already-slick passage, and works on soaping himself up instead.

Sherlock is making no real effort to be quiet when he enters the bathroom, and John's heightened senses pick him up immediately. He's scuffling about, stripping down before slipping into the shower behind John.

John leans forward slightly, parting his legs, inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock's clearly got other ideas though. John feels Sherlock running his fingertips down John's back with maddening delicacy; tracing over the knob of bone at the base of his cervical spine, the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, the puckered bullet hole, the myriad other smaller scars scattered across John's back. Slowly, methodically, Sherlock reads the physical map of John's life like braille, no doubt transcribing every detail onto canvas in the John section of his mind palace.

Sherlock pauses when he gets to the dip at the base of John's spine, hovering just above the curve of John's arse, and whimpers. At the noise, John turns and looks over his shoulder, his heart thudding erratically at the expression on Sherlock's face. Pained and worshipful, all at once.

Something inside of John shatters and he turns fully, taking Sherlock's face between his hands. He kisses Sherlock, forceful and rough, lips tightly closed, and pulls away, looking into his eyes.

"Hey, hey. What's going on in that head of yours?"

Sherlock shakes his head, his curls damp and clinging to his skin. "I just... Your injuries."

John smiles, running his thumbs along Sherlock's cheekbones. "I'm here now, yeah? I'm fine now."

"It's not that." Sherlock shakes his head again, turning and rubbing his lips against John's palm. "We came so close to not knowing each other."

John lets go of Sherlock's face and steps out of the shower spray, closing the gap between them. Despite the lull in contact, despite the unexpected emotional turn things have taken, his cock is still full and hard, thrusting obscenely away from his body, and Sherlock's flagged slightly but still isn't much better, his own hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

"I fully expected to have blisteringly hot shower sex this morning, Sherlock Holmes, and you are ruining it for me." Pointedly, he rocks his hips, grinding himself into the soft, wet skin of Sherlock's hip. He can feel Sherlock steadily returning to full hardness against him, feel the corresponding warmth deep inside his own body, waiting to be fucked.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tips his head to bite gently at John's shoulder. "Shall I blame your pheromones, then? Making me all domestic and protective and Alpha-y?"

"Pseudo-biology bollocks." John hisses as Sherlock drags his teeth across the taut skin of his collarbone. He slides his hands down the slick length of Sherlock's body, coming to rest at the subtle flare of his hips. Instinctively, Sherlock thrusts against him, his cock fully proud now. The heat and water of the shower add a whole new dimension to the grinding and rubbing, but it's never going to be enough to satiate John in his current state.

"Turn around," Sherlock murmurs, his breath impossibly hot against John's already-feverish skin.

John whimpers in anticipation and relief and digs his fingers into Sherlock's sides briefly before releasing him and doing as he's bid. He turns, presenting his back and arse to Sherlock, and leans forward, bracing himself against the cool tile of the shower wall. The spray of water trickles through his hair and down his back, adding yet another layer of sensation to the experience.

Sherlock trails his fingers down John's back, diverting the water in all sorts of interesting and pleasant ways. John moans softly, resting his warm cheek against his arm, still braced against the wall. His cock is throbbing, and without thinking he lowers one hand and begins stroking himself lightly.

"No, I don't think so..." Sherlock admonishes, nipping John's shoulder before guiding his hand back up to the wall. John whines, a sharp exhalation through his teeth, but Sherlock is relentless. Both of his hands have returned to John's back, hovering teasingly above his arse.

"Sherlock, please!" John's past caring if he sounds like some needy, pathetic Omega at this point.

Chuckling, Sherlock takes pity and John feels those long, talented fingers stroking up and down the cleft of his arse, gently pulling his cheeks apart. He moans quietly into his forearm, waiting for the blissful moment when Sherlock's fingers breach him.

He's ready, eager, and sopping, and when Sherlock finally slides two fingers into him with no preamble, the relief is like a weight lifted from John's shoulders. He moans, rocking his hips back in attempt to pull Sherlock in deeper, but Sherlock tuts at John and moves back minutely. Just enough to keep his fingers on the periphery of John's awareness.

John turns his head, glowering over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"You won't let me touch myself, you won't touch me... For fuck's sake, Sherlock." There's no anger in his voice though, and he knows Sherlock is aware. The bastard just smirks at him, a low lazy pull of his lips.

"Turn around and close your eyes, John. I promise you, it will be worth it."

Fuming silently, but still aroused beyond the point of coherent thought, John complies. A shudder runs down his spine as something thick and bulbous slides in between his arse cheeks, playing at his slick opening. His first thought is that it's Sherlock's cock, and his heart-rate increases in eager anticipation, but something doesn't feel quite right. It's too solid, too unyielding.

Slowly, he feels Sherlock pushing it into him, and his body welcomes the intrusion, swallowing it greedily. It's a thick plug with a silicone knot at the base, the pseudo-Alpha-cock John's kept up in his room for years. What the hell's Sherlock playing at?

Despite John's better judgement, he trusts Sherlock and allows him to keep at it. Soon the plug is seated firmly inside of him, and John realises what a sad imitation it is, now that he's got Sherlock to compare it to. He feels full and tight, but it's a bit like scratching just to the left of an itch he can't quite reach. It's better than nothing, but it will never be completely satisfying. He bites his lip and rocks his hips in tiny increments, trying to find the best angle for the plug.

John's distracted by Sherlock's lips and tongue, kissing and licking the trails of water away from his nape. He scrambles for better purchase against the slick tile of the wall, desperate to avoid touching himself.

"Mm, John, is that comfortable enough?" Sherlock presses on the base of the plug, shifting it and pushing it deeper into John, and he gasps. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nods.

"Good. Now, I think it's time we get out of here, before the hot water runs out entirely."

Now that Sherlock's pointed it out, the water is obviously losing temperature, and rapidly. John had been rather oblivious to the whole thing up until now. He shakes his foggy head and turns the taps, interrupting the stream of water as Sherlock pulls the curtain aside.

A quick glance over John's shoulder confirms that Sherlock is still just as aroused as he is, so John assumes they're moving into the bedroom. He's about to ask Sherlock for confirmation but bites his tongue, guessing that Sherlock would deem the question idiotic. As if reading his mind, Sherlock smirks and holds a hand out to John, who steps gingerly out of the tub, moaning as the plug shifts around inside of him.

Sherlock makes quick work of drying them both off with an enormous, fluffy towel John doesn't remember bringing into the bathroom. Sherlock must have had a moment of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness and brought it in here himself.

"Mm, thanks." He nuzzles his face against the looped cotton as Sherlock dries his hair. In his state, even such a simple, comforting touch sets his pulse racing.

Eventually Sherlock brings the towel to John's prick and impishly wraps it around him, stroking firmly a few times. Another awkward whimper escapes John's lips and he grips the edge of the sink for balance as he thrusts obscenely into Sherlock's hand.

"I think that's enough for now, John." Sherlock grins infuriatingly and steps backwards into the bedroom. John follows him, hazy and lust-addled.

Sherlock's already turned down the bedcovers in anticipation, and there's another towel at the end of the bed. Most improbably though, is the bottle of lubricant. One of the few perks of John's anatomy is the fact that they don't usually need lube, especially during his heat. It may be nearly over, but John's plenty slick already. He stares at the bottle for a moment, and as he walks towards the bed the plug inside of him shifts, and everything clicks into place.

John's eyes grow wide and his mouth falls open, and somewhere in the back of his brain it registers that he must look like an idiot; Sherlock just grins widely at him, fond and guileless and excited. John files that particular expression away for future reference, for the next time Sherlock's blowing something up or dissecting something in their kitchen and he needs a reminder of why he's in love with the bloody git in the first place. And that's when it hits him; he really is well and truly in love with Sherlock already.

"I do believe you promised to fuck me at some point, John. I took the liberty of beginning to prepare myself while you were still asleep."

Sherlock steps around John and falls onto the bed, landing flat on his back but looking impossibly graceful the whole time. John can't help but be mesmerised as Sherlock's flushed, leaking cock bounces heavily against his abdomen as he falls. Sherlock grabs John's wrist and gives him one sharp tug, and John tumbles down next to him, wincing slightly as his own erection gets pinned under him for a moment.

He manages to roll over onto Sherlock, pinning him between his knees, without too much ungainly scrambling. In his state, it seems like an enormous accomplishment. He drops down and mashes his lips against Sherlock's in a fumbling kiss, but Sherlock mumbles appreciatively against him and parts his lips, allowing John to slip his tongue in. It's messy and frantic and all the more precious for it. Usually when Sherlock kisses, it's a clever, calculated assault on John's senses, but right now he's as desperate and crazed as John himself is, and that's oddly comforting.

John cups Sherlock's jaw in both hands, holding him in place as he fucks Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. He can feel Sherlock undulating under him, writhing eagerly, his cock -- still just as hard as John's -- digging into John's abdomen. John bucks, rutting senselessly against the warm, soft skin inside of Sherlock's hip bone without breaking the kiss.

His hands slide up the sides of Sherlock's head, fingers tracing the ornate curves of his ears before burying themselves in that absurd riot of curls. John tugs lightly, smirking as Sherlock moans into his mouth. John pulls away, panting slightly, and presses his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock nips at John's lower lip and John opens his eyes, staring slightly cross-eyed into Sherlock's shockingly pale gaze.

"Hi..." John pants out, and giggles at his own inanity. It's a testament to Sherlock's arousal and distracted state that he doesn't say anything particularly insulting about John's conversational skills. Instead, he chuckles.

"Hello, John." Sherlock's voice is a deep rumble, and John can feel it from his lips to his chest, lying entangled as they are. His cock twitches insistently, thrumming against Sherlock's body.

John buries his face in the curve of Sherlock's throat and inhales deeply. Sweat. Salt. Acetone. Tobacco. _Home_. Unthinkingly, John laps up the sweat he finds pooling in Sherlock's suprasternal notch, and Sherlock bucks under him again.

Dragging his teeth across Sherlock's collarbone one last time, John pulls away with a groan and sits up.

Sherlock lifts his head off the mattress and scowls briefly, but John's merely repositioned himself so he's kneeling between Sherlock's legs. He grips Sherlock's knees, running his thumbs soothingly over the patellae, before pulling his legs apart less than gently.

Seeing Sherlock lying there, spread open, presenting himself hits John like a punch to the gut. He gasps, sucking in desperately-needed air. Sherlock's huge, thick, gloriously Alpha cock is jutting away from his body at an angle that looks nearly painful. The vivid red of it contrasts sharply against the pale skin of his abdomen and the dark nest of curls at the base, so soft and loose and reminiscent of the hair on his head that sometimes it hurts John to look at Sherlock in public.

He runs his hands down the long expanse of Sherlock's chest, smooth and symmetrical, thumbs flicking over the dusty, raised nubs of his nipples. Sherlock whines, low and deep in his throat, and thrusts his hips upwards obscenely. His cock bounces and John bites back a groan. He brings his hands down to Sherlock's abdomen, fingers brushing feather-light across the thin skin there, the fine dusting of hair.

Sherlock's panting now, his head rolling side to side, and again, John feels a pang deep in his chest. Knowing he's the only one who gets to see Sherlock like this -- his cool, controlled facade abandoned, coming undone by John's own clever hands -- sets John's heart to pounding even more erratically, even more furiously. Impulsively, he leans forward and kisses the inside of Sherlock's knee. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, which is saying a lot.

John parts his hands, bringing them around to either side of Sherlock's erection, never quite touching him. He strokes the soft skin inside of Sherlock's thighs and brings his fingers down to the expanse behind Sherlock's heavy testicles. He presses one thumb firmly against Sherlock's perineum, and Sherlock lets out a high-pitched whine John can't help chuckling at. As his thumb slides further back, he feels the thin slickness of lube, mostly gone by now but still evident. Sherlock really had started preparing himself before John woke up.

John swallows the lump in his throat, convincing himself it's entirely arousal, and absolutely positively not emotion, causing it.

"Sherlock?" He coughs out, his voice ragged and foreign-sounding. "D'you want to roll over? Might be easier for you."

"No, I'd rather not." Sherlock, damn him, still sounds posh and smooth and coherent, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. "I'd like to see your expression once you're buried inside me."

The mental picture of John's cock, thrust to the hilt into Sherlock's tight, puckered arsehole, assaults John's senses, and he groans deeply. His cock twitches, and he grips the base of it tightly. The urge to stroke is nearly overwhelming, but he fights it, and attempts to calm himself.

"If you keep talking like that, Sherlock, this isn't going to last."

"Mm, I don't need it to last. I just need you to fuck me, good and hard, with that huge cock of yours."

John tightens his grip and hisses, giving his balls a sharp tug for good measure. He rocks backwards and forwards in small increments, causing the plug seated firmly inside of him to shift pleasantly.

"You're a menace, you know that?" He nuzzles the inside of Sherlock's thigh and reaches for the lube. He's not sure he can drag this out much longer. Sherlock makes an indistinct, needy noise and lets his head fall back onto the mattress as he shifts his weight, angling his hips up slightly.

John pours the lubricant into his hand and slicks up two fingers before stroking up Sherlock's cleft and around the snug ring of his arsehole. He's not sure what Sherlock did earlier, but the muscle is already pliant and relaxed, and he slips his first finger in easily. Bless Sherlock for thinking ahead, because John's fairly certain he wouldn't have the patience to do this properly. He crooks his finger, grinning when Sherlock's cock spasms in reaction, twitching away from his body.

Slowly, gently, he works the single finger in and out, spreading more lubricant around as he does. He feels the muscle relax even further and looks up at Sherlock's face. His cheeks are bright red, eyes screwed shut in concentration, full lower lip trapped between his teeth. He's tossing his head around, a thin trickle of sweat running along his left temple. John feels his muscles clench in response to seeing Sherlock like this, squeezing the plug inside of him and drawing out a shiver.

_I did that_ , John thinks. _That's all for me._

John slides a second finger in along with the first and hooks them forward, feeling along the muscle wall for the nub of Sherlock's prostate. He can tell he's succeeded when Sherlock cries out sharply, so overstimulated already that a thin stream of pre-ejaculate leaks from the head of his cock as John presses down on the gland. There's something incredibly satisfying about seeing Sherlock at the whims and mercies of his hormones like this, something that makes John feel less self-conscious about the needs of his own body.

Encouraged, he spreads his fingers, and encountering no resistance, slides a third in easily. He marvels at the sight of his glistening fingers disappearing into Sherlock as he rocks his wrist gently. Sherlock is moaning now, babbling incessant, incoherent nonsense, and it shatters what's left of John's fragile patience. He thrusts his fingers in a few last times, until he's certain that Sherlock's arsehole is as open and relaxed as it's going to get, before shifts on his knees and repositioning himself.

Sherlock, eager and still aware enough of his surroundings to realise what's happening, lifts his heels off the mattress and throws his legs over John's shoulders, opening himself up further. John whimpers at the sight.

He's leaking pre-come so copiously by this point that he wonders vaguely if the lubricant is even a necessity, but slicks himself up thoroughly just to be certain; it wouldn't do to hurt Sherlock at this point. He groans softly, rolling his hips and thrusting his length through the tight circle of his fingers a couple of times before biting his lip and stilling.

"Hurry _up_!" Sherlock barks, thrusting his hips into the air. Imperious and demanding, even when he's spread open and at John's mercy like this. John rolls his eyes affectionately.

He grips his cock in one hand and gently runs the head up and down the slippery cleft between Sherlock's arse cheeks. Every time he passes over Sherlock's opening, Sherlock whines and wriggles. The tease gets to be too much for the both of them and carefully, John positions the fat, rounded head of his cock against Sherlock's arsehole. Sherlock opens his eyes and with a sudden clarity, he smirks and nods at John, the invitation clear.

John pushes his hips forward infinitesimally, the very tip of his cock pressing into Sherlock's loose opening. He pulls his hips back, watching with interest as Sherlock's hole remains open, dark and inviting, before slowly twitching down again. Before it has the chance to contract fully, John slides forward again, inch by agonizing inch.

He is groaning, aching, _yearning_ to be seated deeply and fully inside of Sherlock, but he maintains the slow, steady pace. It's tight, god, it's so tight, tighter than anything John's ever had his cock in before, and it's glorious and perfect. With each stroke, he pulls out nearly completely before sliding in, always a bit deeper than before.

It's not long before John's lost in the moment, letting his body take over and stroke in and out of Sherlock as if by some deep-seated reflex. He's jolted out of his trance by Sherlock's voice.

"JOHN!" Sherlock's eyes snap wide open, just as John feels the soft crunch of the coarse hairs at the base of his cock grinding against Sherlock's arse. He's in fully, and Christ, it's glorious.

He's suddenly overwhelmed by a thrumming, pulsing sensation deep within the boiling core of his body. Fuck, Sherlock's got the remote for the toy inside of him. He makes an awkward, strangled noise and bucks, his cock slamming further into Sherlock, who crows triumphantly.

"You mad, beautiful bastard," John gasps out, fighting the urge to thrust hard and fast into Sherlock. He's locked in place, every muscle clenched tight to give Sherlock time to acclimatise to the fullness inside of him.

John focuses on the trickle of sweat running down his spine, on the watermark on the ceiling, on the periodic table over his shoulder -- anything other than the gorgeous mass of writhing body, bouncing cock, and flailing limbs under him, the impossibly tight heat around him.

It's Sherlock who takes the lead, because of course it is. He locks his feet together around John's back and pulls himself up, effectively impaling himself on John's cock, thoroughly destroying whatever shreds of self-control John had left.

Leaning forward and gripping the sheets, John thrusts deeply into Sherlock, before pulling nearly all of the way out and slamming back in again. He opens his eyes briefly and catches Sherlock staring at him, something glittering and indefinable in those eyes. Sherlock grins, a mess of teeth and tongue, and John fucks him, but really _fucks_ him. He grips the sheets for leverage, hips pistoning furiously.

The room is filled with the mingled smells of acrid sweat and cloying pheromones, the sounds of skin slapping skin and ragged breaths and cut-off groans, and it's all threatening to overwhelm John. He feels a tightening at the base of his cock, a slow burn in his stomach, that he hasn't felt properly in ages. His knot is swelling, tightening, and Sherlock cries out. For a moment John worries he's hurt him, he's body's not meant to handle this, but Sherlock grins slow and wide, a luxuriant shudder running through his whole body, ending where they're pulled so tightly together.

At the same time, the silicone knot on the plug inside of him stiffens, Sherlock apparently still clear-headed enough to control the remote. How had John not noticed it in his hand before? Clever bugger.

That's the last conscious thought that runs through John's mind, right before he lets out one hellishly loud shout. He can feel his cock, spasm after spasm, rocking deeply inside of Sherlock as he spills, what seems like an enormous, impossible amount of come. The plug inside of him is doing its job too, he feels the muscle walls around it quivering and clenching, contracting and bearing down, and the overwhelming sensation nearly blacks him out entirely.

As the haze of John's orgasm recedes, his arms tremble and he collapses on top of Sherlock, still rock-hard and trapped between their stomachs. He's writhing manically, his own cock swollen and knotted and desperate for friction and snugness.

"Shh, shh, I've got you..." John scrambles for the remote in Sherlock's hand and turns the bloody thing off, scrambling backwards and sliding out of Sherlock's trembling body with a whimper. He pulls the plug out, feeling chill and bereft, but not for long. He leans forward and kisses the prominent arch of Sherlock's cheekbone before sliding down his body.

John wraps both hands snugly around the swollen flare at the base of Sherlock's engorged prick, squeezing as tightly as he can. It won't be quite the same, but it will help relieve the pressure. He flicks his tongue over the head, lapping up the pool of salty-sweet pre-come that's collected there, and Sherlock bucks, driving himself deeper into John's mouth.

Sherlock must have been more worked up than even John realised, because within moments he's stiffening even further, twitching hard against John's tongue, and then he's coming and coming and coming and John breathes through his nose, swallowing it all down, stroking the base of Sherlock's cock in tight little jerks.

Eventually Sherlock stills beneath him, gasping in wet, ragged breaths. John sits up and blinks the moisture out of his eyes and wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

His muscles rubbery and exhausted, he crawls up next to Sherlock and falls over with a thump. Sherlock rolls onto his side, studying John's face as though it's something precious. Despite everything they've just done, it feels painfully intimate and John looks away.

"Thank you, John."

He turns his head back, staring at Sherlock again. Thankfully it's Sherlock's turn to study the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock? Did you just thank me?"

"Mm, I suppose I did." There's laughter in his sleepy, slurred voice.

"You never thank me for anything. And besides, I should be thanking you, for letting me do that."

"Letting you, nothing." Sherlock flaps a hand vaguely in the air. "I _wanted_ that."

"As an experiment though, right?"

Sherlock turns to stare at John again, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Yet again, you over-simplify everything."

John scowls slightly. Leave it to Sherlock to ruin his buzz.

"No, no, I didn't mean it badly." Sherlock must have read it in his expression. "I just meant that..." He huffs in frustration, breath displacing the errant curl hanging low over his fore ad, and despite John's former annoyance he reaches out and strokes the curl out of the way tenderly. "Yes, I was curious to experience something new. But the important part is that I wanted to experience it with you. I want to do _everything_ with you, John. To you. With you. Semantics. I want to watch your face as you experience it all."

In their perfect, fuzzy, post-coital haze, Sherlock's blathering makes absolute sense to John. He curls up, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. They're both sticky with sweat and they'll need to shower _again_ soon enough, but for now he's content. He murmurs against Sherlock's skin, ready to confess the revelation he had earlier.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying my foray into this universe, please subscribe to [the series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58411). This is the final chapter in this particular story arc, but there will be several follow-ups and one-shot stories to come! If you have any ideas of what you'd like to see John and Sherlock live through in this 'verse, please feel free to leave a comment. I can't promise everything will be written, but I am always open to suggestion.


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